tube Tuesday - a day late and a soapbox taller

I try to avoid ranting here, particularly about the greater issues that we almost all seek relief from in the blogosphere, but Wow, how we have failed to learn the lessons from the past. The man could be talking about the last five years for all he knew:

An open letter to the nation's hairstylists

If a woman with three feet of hair comes in to your salon and asks to make a 10" donation to Locks of Love with a 2" trim that does not give you license to hack of 17", leaving said woman with hair that is unacceptably short.

You do not live in my universe, you are a visitor - I'm the one who has to live with your incompetence, with hair that is now too short to braid, too short to tie up without a ponytail elastic and too short to stay behind my shoulders when I lean over my sewing machine.

You suck and karma's a bitch.

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An open letter to my friends:

When you see me with shorter hair than I've had since primary school, you do not need to come up with an instant polite statement about how I look. I know I look awkward, I know this is weird, I know this is a violation of the natural order of the taraburse, but it's something we're all going to have to deal with for a few months until I can be my normal long-haired self again.

Yes, I will continue to donate to Locks of Love, but it'll take me three years for my next cut at this rate.

And, yes, I will accept wine and cookies in consolation.

rabbits

Methinks the habit of carrying your critters everywhere has gone too far.

I get it with dogs - they're pack animas who like to go on the hunt with you, even if that hunt is just to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription. But, seriously? It's flopsy - she doesn't care about what's going on outside of the occasional wheat germ treat and carrot tops. And how far does a house-rabbit get on a leash without being stepped on by someone who is, understandably, not expecting to find a domesticate rabbit in the park?

I know I am no Anna Wintour, but . . .

. . I have a deep, internalized love of fashion.

It is true that I generally dress like a child who was adopted by gypsies after being raised by wolves for the first nine years of my life. However, it is also true that deep in my core lives a woman of unassuming style and grace, whose shoes are always polished, whose earrings always match and whose stockings never run and have impeccably straight seams at all times.*

It is also true that I have a boiling cauldron of snark that is rarely tamed.

I did manage to hold my tongue last weekend when I saw a woman wearing a polyester sweatsuit tucked into suede boots, but I am not always so lucky. Often whatever companion is unfortunate enough to be with me when I see a blatant fashion offense is forced to listen to my commentary in a tone just below stage whisper.

You will not be surprised, then, to know that I enjoy the voyeuristic snark of the peopleofwalmart blog.

I am a little fed up with them, though, and may not go back thanks to the touch of smarminess I noticed there the other day. You see, many of the tags on their posts had little or nothing to do with either the photo or the commentary. Such blatant fiddling of search engine spiders angers my deeply inflexible moral code.

The site has been reviewed in multiple national media outlets - blog readers and voyeurs are actively looking for what they offer, there is no need for such sophomoric foolishness.

I do not feel like I am missing out on much, either. You see, I work in a city with a rich and diverse population, very near an Arts College; so I can see plenty of mismatched clothing and poor underwear choices without having to ever boot up my computer.

*A woman who was thrilled when the etiquette gods declared that one could pair a navy skirt with black shoes and black stockings and not be stoned outside her door by vicious mavens wielding Chanel eyeshadow compacts and quilted clutches.

chaps my hide

I play the tv while I work - mostly videocassettes from twenty years ago, but occassionally I put the commercial tv on. My household has cable, so I get to pay to watch commercials.

That chaps.

Do you remember when you paid for cable and the channels you paid for only showed commercials for their own programming.

Know what else chaps?

I heard a McDonald's commercial where a bloke was wandering around trying to shop with a dollar. He did not get far, until he got to the McDonald's where he was offered a sandwich, 'with all the amenities'.

Are condiments 'amenities'?

Possibly. I mean, if a hotel shampoo and soap are 'amenities' even though we have come to expect them, then I suppose condiments could be considered amenities.

But is it really the most appropriate word for that commercial? Or is the last fellow left in the ad agency trying desperately to save their job by using words they have not thought about since the SATs?

Also, while we* are speaking of how tv chaps my hide, what of The Weather Channel? I also ask those of you over 25 to recall a time when the weather channel was a respectable source of verified weather news and reasonable predictions. I ask you now to look upon the new WUWA morning show on The Weather Channel. It has achieved the high level of journalistic quality you find in 1980's local television news casts. Now I find myself logging on to the interwebs for my three day forecast and frost advisories rather than subjecting myself to jovial foolishness at first light.

*I am well aware I am using the royal 'we', and I don't care, because aren't blogs the modern, socially accepted form of monologue?